


The End of Sorrow

by Green



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Amnesia, Drug Use, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Uninformed Consent, could be considered dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-22
Updated: 2012-05-30
Packaged: 2017-11-05 20:28:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/410686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Green/pseuds/Green
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John suffers from drug-induced amnesia. He tries to put the puzzle back together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> many, many thanks to lim, the most fabulous beta reader on the planet. 
> 
> Moira's novels are based on the works of Eleanor Hibbert (aka Victoria Holt), a beloved and prolific writer of historical fiction.

“Have you remembered anything?” Mycroft asked.

John paused with his hand on the teapot. “Nothing. I dreamt last night but I don’t remember that, either.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, looking curious, but then his face smoothed and he nodded. “It may simply take some time, John.”

John sighed. “I know.” Then, “Have I thanked you for your hospitality? It means a lot to me. I’m in no condition to stay alone, you were right.” He’d only known Mycroft for a week. It seemed odd to move in with someone he’d just met, but the other man assured him they were well acquainted.

Mycroft waved his hand and wiped the corner of his mouth with a thick, snowy napkin. “It’s the very least I can do for you.” He gave John a tight smile. John got the idea that it was meant to be warm.

Mycroft ate briskly, completing breakfast as efficiently as the crossword. It was very early in the morning. Breakfast had happened very early every day so far. Mycroft seemed to be ever eager to get on with his work–he had told him he occupied a minor position in the government, but John felt that was somehow less than a genuine answer.

His doctors had said he should ease back into his life slowly and not to overload himself. So far, he knew only the bare facts of his past: He was an Essex boy. Both his parents were dead. He had a sister named Harriet. He'd gone to KEGS in Chelmsford and on to university in London. He’d been an MO in Afghanistan, a captain even, but he’d been shot and sent back home.

It was a lot to forget.

Last night he’d shed his shirt and stared at the scar on his shoulder for what felt like hours. He’d touched it, pressed on it, tried to _feel_ a memory. Nothing.

He thought about telling Mycroft about it, but it seemed too personal and it had led to nothing anyway. “Working hard today?” John asked, taking a bite of toast.

“As ever,” Mycroft said.

“You should take a day off,” John said impulsively. He barely saw the man; Mycroft was almost always working.

A small smile played about Mycroft’s lips. “I’d be positively bored without some problem or another.”

“I’m getting a bit bored myself just sitting around here all day,” John said.

“Have you been in the library since your tour of the house?” Mycroft asked.

At first it hadn’t appealed, since it was doubtful that the library would contain a clue to his past, but John was going to lose his mind from boredom. Maybe a good book was just what he needed.

“Thanks for the suggestion. I’ll try it.”

* * *

Mycroft had been there when John first woke up in hospital. His was the first face John had ever seen. That he could remember, that is. Mycroft’s expression had been one of worry and relief.

John had blinked muzzily and asked him who he was. Once that was out of his mouth, he had realized that he didn’t know himself either. Mycroft had looked alarmed and called for the doctor, and before she had finished examining him, John had worked out what was wrong. He could have recited his own prognosis along with the doctor. He knew things, medical terminology and facts he couldn’t remember learning. Not much later, he was told he had been a doctor.

Mycroft had taken charge and pulled strings and then John had been at this house, recovering from an overdose he couldn’t remember taking, suffering from drug-induced amnesia.

John knew he should be in his own flat, among his own things, around faces of family and friends. He should be looking at old photo albums and listening to his favorite music. He should be doing all this to get his memory back, but he was, in fact, doing none of that. Mycroft and the doctors had said that John was to take it easy and relax.

It frustrated him, but he thought he was beginning to understand. If he’d suffered from PTSD and depression after his return from the war, if he’d taken that overdose to intentionally harm himself, maybe it was better to go slowly for the time being. Maybe the memories were too painful for him to remember right now. And perhaps that was exactly what the doctors and Mycroft were thinking.

The library was amazing and richly furnished. Shelves full of books climbed up to the high ceiling. There were two old, dark wood desks, a matching table, and a chesterfield sofa. John did not know where to begin, so he started by looking at the books already out. There were a few on the desks and table, and John was surprised to find they were all first editions. What kind of person left first edition books lying around on a table? John was hesitant to touch them. 

He looked, though. He scanned the shelves when he was finished examining the loose books. Something was out of place, though. Behind one of the desks, almost hidden, was a row of probably thirty books. They were newer, with sometimes shiny dust jackets, and they were all of the same author: Moira Holen. John slid one of the books from its place and looked at the back cover. The title of the book was _The Shadow of the Lynx_. The summary read, _Nora is seduced by a man known only as the Lynx. Does he love her in return, or is she just a pawn in an elaborate revenge plot?_ John smiled. On the cover was an illustration of a woman in a white gown and bonnet, fleeing from a large manor, a look of fear on her face. The summary may have promised romance, but the cover was pure intrigue. Without particularly knowing why, John took the book with him to the sofa.

He stopped, though, when he reached the dedication page. 

_For Mycroft and Sherlock, my own dear hearts_

Surely it wasn’t a coincidence, and Mycroft wasn’t a common name. Who was Moira Holen? Who was Sherlock?

John shoved the questions out of his mind and began to read. The novel was actually quite clever. The mystery escaped him until the very end. It had been Nora’s father who’d caused all the fuss, and she had been unknowingly paying for his sins. When the end was revealed, John found himself humming in satisfaction. Whoever Moira Holen was, she had a sharp mind.

He didn’t realize he’d lifted his right arm until he was staring at his empty wrist. John sighed. Some part of him remembered having a watch, at least. He would ask Mycroft what happened to it. 

Glancing at the clock over the mantelpiece, John saw that it was time to eat. He’d skipped lunch and tea, though he was surprised no one came to fetch him. Perhaps after a week of John’s independent personality the staff had learned not to bother him.

John made his way to the dining room and was pleased to find Mycroft already there. The man was growing on him, it seemed. John was beginning to look forward to seeing him each day. (Maybe, though, he was just going mad and Mycroft’s company was the only human interaction he had.)

Dinner looked good: stuffed cornish game hens, asparagus, and whipped potatoes with butter. 

“Does it suit you?” Mycroft asked. John realized he was joking, because John must have been staring and practically drooling.

“I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until now,” John said with a sheepish smile.

Mycroft nodded. “You’d be less hungry if you ate during the day.”

John wanted to groan. “Are all your staff spying on me, or just one or two?”

“ _Looking out for you_ , John,” Mycroft said.

John sighed. It was nice that Mycroft cared about him. That someone did. No one had come to visit him since he’d arrived at Mycroft’s home. He didn’t know whether that was good or bad. He also didn’t know whether it was intentional on Mycroft’s part. 

John spent the next few minutes not speaking. Mycroft had impeccable table manners and John tried to eat as neatly as he could. 

“Made use of the library, did you?” Mycroft asked after the silence had gone on for long enough.

“Who’s Sherlock?” John blurted.

He’d managed to surprise Mycroft. No, shock him, by the way his eyes widened. But then his face went cold and he clipped out, “Where did you hear that name?”

John blinked deliberately. A small thrill went through him; apparently it made him happy to shock Mycroft. He should do it more often.

“I read it somewhere,” John said. “In a book.”

Mycroft looked relieved and then he sighed. “I suppose you could have read his name anywhere in the library, then. Some of the books were his as a child and he did like to place his name in them. Very possessive, my brother.”

“Brother?” John echoed.

“Just so.” Mycroft seemed to be thinking hard about something. 

“Do I know him?” John asked.

Mycroft’s eyes glittered. “Does anyone know Sherlock Holmes?” he murmured. John still had questions, but that seemed to be the end of the conversation as Mycroft rose from his chair and exited the room.

* * *

“I’d like to go out,” John said over breakfast the next morning.

“Of course. The grounds are extensive,” Mycroft said.

John shook his head. “I want to see my flat. I think it’s time.”

Mycroft looked very grave. “I … see.”

“I don’t think you do,” John said. “I’ve lost my entire life. Everything. I need to be around my things, some … some evidence that I lived.”

Mycroft frowned, then said, “I will have some of your things brought here.”

John made a noise of frustration. “I need to be there, in my flat. I need to _remember_.”

“John,” Mycroft said slowly. Gently.

“I know!” John said. He got up from the table and turned away to look out the large windows. “Something made me want to overdose and you think if I remember I’ll try to off myself again. Am I right?”

“Cleverer than you look,” Mycroft said with a sigh. “I shouldn’t forget that.”

John looked at him again. “ _Help_ me.”

“That is what I have been doing,” Mycroft said. “Protecting you, too.”

“From the truth. From myself.”

“It is what a good friend would do,” Mycroft said.

“Is that what you are?” John murmured. 

“What do you think?” Mycroft asked, and took a sip of tea.

John was silent for a few moments, watching Mycroft. “I think I want to see my flat.”

* * *

“Is that- Are those _bullet holes_?” John asked as he studied the wall.

Mycroft moved in closer and looked. “Hmm. That appears to be the case.”

John was mystified. How did the bullet holes get there? Had he been shot at? Whose skull was on the mantle? What was going on with the chemistry set in the kitchen? The entire flat was one big mystery.

“Have you satisfied your curiosity, John?” Mycroft asked.

There were two chairs facing each other. “I had a flatmate,” John said. He whirled on Mycroft. “I want to meet him. Her. Him or her?” 

“Him. And I’m afraid that isn’t possible. Your flatmate left for the Slovak Republic two months ago.”

“For what?” John asked. It wasn’t every day people moved all the way to Slovakia. 

Mycroft turned away. “I believe that is where his work took him.” He swung his umbrella, looking bored. 

“I know, I know, you’re bored to tears here. Just give me a few more- Is that _my_ laptop?” John rolled his eyes at himself. “Who else’s would it be?” he muttered. He sat down with the computer and turned it on, then waited.

“John, I don’t think-”

“Bugger. It’s password protected,” John said, and laughed sourly. “I don’t know my own bleeding password.”

“If you want a computer, one will be provided,” Mycroft said.

John sighed. “I want my own. Something from Before. Maybe this has pictures on it or emails... Something.”

“Please don’t rush things,” Mycroft said. “Your memory will come back to you eventually, but in the meantime you shouldn’t put yourself under so much stress to remember.”

John looked up at him. “What was I like before the overdose? Right before, I mean.”

Mycroft frowned as he thought. “Despairing, I would say. I only wish I had adequately assessed the extent of your depression at the time. Perhaps if I had intervened...”

“It may not have done any good, if I really was that badly off,” John said kindly. 

“Still, I cannot help but fault myself,” Mycroft said.

John shook his head. “I’m a grown man responsible for my own actions.”

Mycroft looked around the living room and nodded, though John got the distinct impression that he wasn’t agreeing.

“I want to see my bedroom, and then … then we can go,” John said. Nothing in the flat had triggered his memory.

Mycroft looked relieved. He gave a short nod. “I’ll wait here.” When John started toward one door, Mycroft said quickly, “Your room is upstairs. That one’s been empty for two months.”

John entered the room anyway, and sure enough it was empty except for a bed. Of course his flatmate would have taken everything if he was moving to another country. 

Then John took the stairs two at a time and entered the small bedroom at the top. His room. It should have sparked some kind of memory, but it didn’t. The room wasn’t messy but it was far from neat. The bed was unmade. 

John looked around feeling helpless. If only he were some sort of _detective_ , able to deduce who and what he was by looking at his things. He didn’t know where his mind got that thought, but it was a good one. 

He was about to head back downstairs when something caught his attention. There was a hint of blue wrapped up in the sheet. He pulled back the covers and saw it was a scarf. Now what the hell was he doing with a scarf in his bed? 

It was dark and soft and something about it made him bring it to his face and inhale. A faint scent gave John a flash -- just a flash and it was gone -- of memory. He didn’t even know what the memory had been. It was like having a word on the tip of his tongue without the ability to retrieve it.

John sat down hard on the bed and tried to puzzle it out. The scent had triggered something. An emotion, a memory, a person. This wasn’t his scarf, it belonged to someone else. He was sure of that. 

He smelled the scarf again, closing his eyes and concentrating.

“John?”

John startled. He gripped the scarf in his lap and managed to calm himself as he looked at Mycroft in the doorway. “Yes?”

“What is the matter?” Mycroft asked, striding forward. He looked at the scarf rather intently.

“Nothing,” John said hoarsely. He realized there were tears in his throat.

“John. Tell me.”

“This was in my bed,” John said slowly. “Strange place for a scarf, that.”

“Do you remember something?” Mycroft asked.

John shook his head. “I want to go. There’s nothing else here.”

Mycroft nodded. “Do you want to take that with you?”

John fingered the soft material. “I don’t know. It’s the first thing I’ve felt attached to since I woke up.”

“But if it causes you pain...” Mycroft didn’t finish his thought but John understood.

“I don’t think I could bear to leave it.”


	2. Chapter 2

From the beginning, John knew that Mycroft was holding things back. Not lying, except perhaps by omission, but keeping him in the dark all the same. There was something else, something besides the PTSD and depression. Something Mycroft was keeping a secret.

John understood, but that didn’t mean he had to like it.

That night, John took the scarf out and laid it out on the bed beside him. He rolled onto his side and touched it as if he’d touch a lover. It was special, this scarf, because it was the only clue John had to his past. No, not a clue, a _connection_.

John fell asleep stroking the scarf.

He dreamed. He recognized the Baker Street flat and the chemistry set on the kitchen table. He was doing something with the setup, and he felt an urgency to finish.

He woke wondering if it had been a memory or just a strange imagining.

Or was he still dreaming? By the window, John could see, there was a dark silhouette of a man.

“Who’s there?” John asked.

“You wouldn’t know me even if I told you,” the man said. He moved closer to the bed and John sat up.

“S’pose not,” John said. “What with the amnesia and everything.” He leaned over and turned on the lamp. He squinted at the sudden brightness. “Want to tell me what you’re doing in my bedroom at-” Quick check of the clock. “-four AM?”

The man hesitated.

“Do I know you?” John asked. He looked the other man over. Tall and slender, with pale skin and curly dark hair. He was younger than John and looked quite posh. He was definitely attractive.

“Obviously, if you have to ask that, the answer is no.”

John rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

Instead of giving John a proper answer, the man came closer and offered his hand. “Sherlock Holmes.”

“Mycroft’s brother?” This was interesting. He shook Sherlock’s hand. It was warm and the palm was smooth.

The noise Sherlock made was pure annoyance. “Not a title I prefer to go by.”

John smiled. “I take it you two don’t get on.”

“He’s an interfering know-it-all. Pompous, arrogant-”

“He’s not that bad,” John said. For some reason, that made Sherlock gape.

“You’re defending the man? Oh, right, of course. You probably have Stockholm Syndrome. No other explanation, really,” And then he smiled, and John felt something in his heart give way.

“So why are you here?” John asked when he’d recovered from Sherlock’s smile.

“I wanted to see you,” Sherlock said.

“So we _do_ know each other,” John said.

“He’s told you nothing about me, has he,” Sherlock murmured.

John thought of the moment when he first said Sherlock’s name, and Mycroft’s reaction. He hadn’t been happy. It made no sense. And Mycroft had only said that Sherlock was his brother, there hadn’t been any mention of a past relationship between John and him.

“No. Nothing,” John said. Then, rather desperately, “Do you know why I tried to kill myself?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Why does anyone commit suicide?”

John sighed. “Deep depression. I know I had PTSD, probably a drug habit...”

Sherlock surprised him with a bark of laughter. “Wherever did you get _that_ idea?”

“I-” John cut himself off and blinked, staring at Sherlock. “I just reckoned after the war I was depressed and-”

“Oh, you were. But not for the reasons you think. And not for long.”

“ _Tell me_ ,” John said.

Sherlock tilted his head and looked him over. John got the strange feeling that he was being picked apart and catalogued.

“Please, Sherlock,” John implored.

“It isn’t safe. It isn’t even safe for me to be here, but when I heard of the incident I had to see you. You weren’t supposed to wake.”

“What does that even mean?” John said. “You aren’t making any sense.”

“Just trust me, John,” Sherlock said.

“How am I supposed to trust you? I don’t even know you.”

A look of what John interpreted as hurt flashed over Sherlock’s face. Then the man smiled tightly. “We _have_ to do something about this memory loss of yours, John.”

John sucked in a breath. “Well, you’re the only one who thinks so.”

“Just give me a fortnight. I’m close, I know I’m close,” Sherlock said, mostly to himself.

“You’re not making any sense,” John said.

“Just stay here with Mycroft. As much as it pains me to say, you’re actually safest here.”

“Why would I need to be kept safe?” John asked sharply. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Sherlock frowned. “I’m not telling you anything. Yet. It’s for your own protection.”

Mycroft had said something about protection. _It’s what a good friend would do._ At the time, John had thought Mycroft meant himself. But what if he’d meant...

John looked at Sherlock, really looked. He was thin and pale and his eyes bore tell-tale signs of sleep deprivation. He was, for one reason or another, running himself ragged. He also looked at John with worry and fondness and just a little exasperation.

“You should sleep,” John said. “You won’t be any good to anyone if you keep on the way you have.”

Instead of looking miffed the way patients often did, Sherlock looked... delighted?

“Always the clever doctor, John. Well, when you’re not being the clever soldier. I suppose even amnesia couldn’t take that away. What are you doing with my scarf, by the way?”

“Your- What?” John said, looking at the scarf in the bed and flushing.

“You’re embarrassed. Why?” Sherlock asked. “It’s just a scarf. Unless you were using it for-”

“I wasn’t using it for anything,” John said quickly. “I just found it. At my flat.”

“That doesn’t explain what it’s doing in your bed,” Sherlock said, almost gleeful.

Flustered, John turned away. “That’s none of your business.”

“Then I guess you wouldn’t mind giving it back,” Sherlock said in a sly voice.

“I don’t-” John started to say. _I don’t want to give it up just yet. Even if it is yours._

“John.”

The tone of Sherlock’s voice made John turned back around. “Yes?”

“Keep it.”

John sighed in relief. “It’s just. It’s the only thing I’ve felt connected to since I woke up.”

“I had deduced that,” Sherlock said.

John almost startled. That word pinged something in his head. Going out on a limb, John asked, “Are you a detective, then?”

“Consulting detective. The world’s only,” Sherlock said. His tone was weary, at odds with the words.

John wanted to ask what was wrong, wanted to know what was causing Sherlock to lose sleep, but Sherlock interrupted his thoughts.

“Don’t tell Mycroft I was here,” he said.

John blinked. “How did you get in without-”

Sherlock waved his hand impatiently. “The cameras were relatively easy to circumvent and my brother is somewhat predictable in his choice of passcodes.”

“Predictable how?” John asked curiously.

“Sentimental. He used my mother’s birthday. Coded, of course. Ever hear of the Enigma cipher? As a boy Mycroft was obsessed with cryptography.”

“He is rather clever,” John said.

Sherlock pulled a face. “He’s an idiot. He thinks you tried to kill yourself and he’s let you believe it, too.”

John found himself blinking again, quite stupidly. “And you don’t think that?”

“The overdose was entirely accidental,” Sherlock said fiercely.

“How do you know?” John asked, holding his breath.

Instead of answering, Sherlock said, “Don’t tell anyone I was here. Give me two weeks. Just two weeks and I can come back.”

“How do you _know_ , Sherlock?” John asked. Pleaded.

“Nepenthe, John,” Sherlock said.

“Don’t be cryptic! Tell me.”

“I have,” Sherlock said. “And now I have to go.” He didn’t move, though. He just stood there and _looked_ at John.

“What is it?” John asked, unnerved.

And then Sherlock was pulling him close against his chest, wrapping his long arms around his back, hugging him tightly. He smelled like lemon soap and cigarettes and something else John’s mind identified immediately.

“I’m glad you aren’t dead,” Sherlock was saying against his hair.

“Are you in a lot of danger, then?” John asked as he pulled away. He had to see Sherlock’s face again, look into his pale eyes.”There’s gunpowder on your sleeve.”

“Clever. The scent of it, yes?”

John nodded.

“There is a danger, yes, though it’s considerably less than when I began,” Sherlock said, which made little sense but John didn’t interrupt. “Like I said, two weeks. Just have faith and then we’ll be together again and we’ll _fix_ this, John.”

 _Together again_.

John wasn’t an idiot. He knew what that meant. Pieces of the puzzle slid together slowly.

“I’m sorry, John, but I have to go. Moran doesn’t stay in one place for long, and if I lose him it’ll be weeks before I find him again.”

“Moran?” John asked curiously. “He’s the danger?”

“I’ve said too much already and I don’t have time and _John_ ,” he said, John’s name a pleading sigh. “I want to tell you everything but it will wait. It has to wait.”

John reached up to touch Sherlock’s face. It seemed like such an intimate gesture for a stranger, but they weren’t strangers, were they? It felt right.

Sherlock’s eyes widened for a moment and then they fluttered closed. He placed his own hand over John’s. He looked overcome and John was feeling something similar. He knew, he _knew_ that he loved this man.

“John,” Sherlock whispered, like a prayer.

“Come back to me,” John said. “Promise.”

“I’ll always come back to you. That was never a question,” Sherlock said.

* * *

John barely slept after Sherlock left. He got to breakfast before Mycroft for a change.

“You’re up early,” Mycroft said when he entered the breakfast room. The food was just being laid out.

John took a drink of his juice. “I was awake most of the night,” he admitted.

Mycroft looked interested. “Memories?”

It was tempting to lie and say he remembered Sherlock, but John didn’t remember how to lie convincingly and Sherlock had been adamant that Mycroft not know he had been there. So John shrugged. “Feelings more than memories.”

“Anything I can help with?” Mycroft asked, though he returned his attention to the paper.

John shook his head. “No. I did have a question for you, though. It’s been troubling me for days.”

Mycroft creased his face. “Do spit it out, John. I, er, want to help.”

John smiled uncertainly. “I was wondering who Moira Holen is to you.”

“My mother.”

John nodded. He’d figured as much.

“The name Holen is the ancient form of Holmes. Father insisted she use a pen name, so she chose that.”

“She dedicated a book to you and your brother,” John said.

“She did that for _every_ book,” Mycroft said. “Mummy was constant in her devotion.”

 _Was_. “You loved her very much.”.

“Yes. The world lost a bit of its magic when she died,” Mycroft said. “Sherlock was at Oxford when she finally succumbed. He took it horribly.”

John’s heart leapt at the sound of Sherlock’s name. He struggled to look politely sympathetic and not overly eager. “In what way?”

Mycroft looked away for a moment. “He became self-destructive in every way he could find.”

“You must have been terrified,” John murmured.

Mycroft looked at him steadily. “Very much so.”

“But he’s all right now?” John asked.

“He’s never been what most people would term ‘all right’,” Mycroft said with a huff of a laugh. “But he pulled himself together, with some help, and went on to be the pain in my arse that I know and love.”

John looked down. Mycroft and he had one thing in common, at least. They both loved Sherlock Holmes.

“Have you read the book?” Mycroft asked.

“What?”

“Mummy’s book. Which one was it?” Mycroft asked curiously.

“Oh. _The Lynx_ ,” John said. “Yes, I read it the whole way through.”

Mycroft smiled. “What did you think of it?”

“It was brilliant,” John said honestly. “Very clever.”

“My mother was a very clever woman indeed,” Mycroft said.

“I think I’ll read another today,” John said. “Do you recommend any in particular?”

Mycroft looked thoughtful. “ _In the Shadow of the Crown_ It’s historical, of course; Mummy was fond of writing in different periods. This one is brimming with court intrigue and politics. It was always one of my favorites.”

John smiled.

“You seem more relaxed today,” Mycroft observed.

“Have I been tense, then?” John asked.

“Yes, and angry that you couldn’t remember. Frustrated that I haven’t been much help.”

“You’re observant,” John said wryly.

“Always,” Mycroft said loftily. It made John smile wider. He quite liked Mycroft, the person he could see dimly through this mask of civility.

“I’ve decided to just give it time,” John said. “I’m pacing myself now.”

For a moment, John was certain Mycroft was about to call him out on his lie. Mycroft’s eyes searched John’s face in an uncomfortable way.

John took a last sip of tea and considered asking Mycroft what _nepenthe_ meant. He was certain the man would know, but at the last moment he held back. It was a clue, and what if it meant something significant? John bit his tongue. Mycroft had been resistant to helping John remember his past. So resistant that he hadn’t even mentioned that John had been in a serious relationship, let alone that it was with his brother. And Sherlock had indicated there was a danger, and had advised against telling Mycroft about his late-night visit.

Conclusion: Mycroft wasn’t to be trusted, not entirely. John would piece together his past without the man’s help.


	3. Chapter 3

> The word "Nepenthes" first appears in the Odyssey of Homer. Literally, it means "the one that chases away sorrow" (ne+penthos). In the Odyssey, "Nepenthes pharmakon" (i.e. a philter that chases away sorrow) is a magical potion given to Helen by an Egyptian queen; it quells all sorrows with forgetfulness.

John read and reread the encyclopedia entry.

A drug that causes forgetfulness. Only no, it couldn’t be this, because nepenthe was a _myth_. Completely fictional.

Sherlock had said, quite adamantly, that John hadn’t intended to kill himself. The overdose wasn’t intentional. Did John trust Sherlock’s theory? Did John trust _Sherlock_?

Perhaps the man Sherlock was after, Moran, had drugged John. That was an explanation John hadn’t thought of before. He wished that Sherlock was there to answer his questions.

Sighing, John turned back to the thick encyclopedia. There was a quote from the Odyssey there. The words were familiar, as if John had read them over and over in the past. He almost knew them by heart before he’d finished the first reading. That had to mean something.

> a drug which eased men’s pains and irritations, making them forget their troubles. A drink of this, once mixed in with wine, would guarantee no man would let a tear fall on his cheek for one whole day, not even if his mother and his father died, or if, in his own presence, men armed with swords hacked down his brother or his son, as he looked on.

John felt ill. No, Moran did not do this.

_“What was I like before the overdose? Right before, I mean.”_

_“Despairing, I would say. I only wish I had adequately assessed the extent of your depression at the time. Perhaps if I had intervened...”_

John had been despairing. Why? It wasn’t PTSD.

_the one that chases away sorrow_

John had taken the drugs, not to kill himself, but to forget. His amnesia had been _purposeful_.

* * *

“What happened to your head?” Mycroft asked as soon as John entered the dining room.

John winced. He’d not taken the revelation well. His vision had gone black and he’d passed out in the library, hitting his head on the desk on his way down to the floor. It was easy to look ashamed. “I fell and hit it on a desk,” he said.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “Did you call for a doctor?”

“In case you forgot, I’m a doctor myself. It’s not concussed. No worries.”

“How did you fall?” Mycroft wanted to know. Sherlock was right, he was interfering.

John sat at his place and looked over the food. He still felt ill, but he’d be damned if he let Mycroft know he was anything but hale and hearty. “I tripped over my own feet.”

“I don’t believe you,” Mycroft said.

“I don’t care if you do or don’t,” John snapped out.

Mycroft gave him a mild look of surprise. “Your lack of tension didn’t last long, I see.”

John glared at him. “In my place you’d be tense, too.”

“Did something happen? Did you remember-”

“No, and that’s the bloody problem, isn’t it? I haven’t remembered a thing.” It was close enough to the truth. John stabbed a chicken breast with a serving fork and transplanted it to his plate.

“Yes, the doctors did warn me about the potential mood swings,” Mycroft said mildly. John got the impression he was baiting him.

“Oh, piss off, will you?” John said without heat.

Mycroft just smiled and focused on his plate.

John picked at his food, his mind wandering back to the nepenthe. He had found the answer to one burning question and it only brought more questions. It frustrated him to no end.

“I can practically hear you thinking,” Mycroft said. “What has you so agitated? Specifically.”

John set his fork down and ran a hand through his hair. It was getting too long; John liked to keep it short. Maybe he’d picked that up in the army. It was a small fact about himself but it meant so much to _know_ something about his life.

“I need a haircut,” he said.

“Yes, well, I can see where that would cause you great anxiety,” Mycroft said.

Seizing on the idea, John said, “I want to go out. I want to be in the city, walk the streets, go to the barber’s and have takeaway after. I’m tired of being cooped up in here.”

Surprising John completely, Mycroft said, “Very well. We’ll go out tomorrow.”

“Just like that?” John asked.

“You aren’t my prisoner, John. If you feel stifled, we’ll go out.”

John nodded. “Thank you.”

Mycroft nodded, then asked politely, “What did you read today?”

Oh. John was supposed to have read one of Mrs. Holmes’ novels. He smiled sheepishly. “I actually got a bit caught up in The Odyssey.”

* * *

His head was pounding and he tasted blood. He tried to touch his mouth but he discovered his hands were bound behind what felt to be a pipe. He turned and looked; the pipe ran from floor to ceiling. He was in what looked to be an abandoned factory. 

What the hell had happened? He and Mycroft had been out, John had just had a haircut, and then-

“Sherlock Holmes is dead.” Mycroft’s voice from across the room was steady and had a trace of annoyance.

It hurt to open his eyes; the light streaming in from the high window was too bright.

“That’s a lie,” came the response, an angry snarl. The other man was quite ordinary looking except for the enraged expression on his face. His black hair was cut short like John’s own and he wore a black shirt with black trousers. Perhaps all the black was meant to look sinister, but it only served to wash the man out. That was another observation, the man was sallow and drawn.

What else? Something told John he should observe and remember everything, even what didn’t seem important.

The boots looked military, but John couldn’t be certain this far away. The man backhanded Mycroft with his right hand. John sucked in a breath loudly.

The man looked in John’s direction, but Mycroft recovered his attention with, “It isn’t. My brother is dead. I attended his funeral two months ago.”

Mycroft was protecting Sherlock, of course. But why tell such an outrageous story, one that could be checked easily?

“He’s been tracking down my friends one by one,” the man said. “Don’t deny it. I know it’s him. He’s after me, now. Well. Instead of finding me he’ll find two dead bodies.”

John found he could wiggle his wrists minutely, enough so that he could reach the knot with his fingertips. He was grateful the binds were rope and not steel handcuffs. It was good fortune his feet weren’t bound, either, though it would be hard to stand without attracting unwanted attention.

“Your ‘friends’?” Mycroft asked. “Like Lucille Derida in Prague and Peter Bradley in Miami? Or maybe you mean-”

“Shut up,” the man snarled.

“I could go on, of course. I’ve made it my personal business to bring down your ‘friends’, Mr. Moran.” Mycroft sounded like he was talking pleasantly over dinner rather than in the face of a kidnapper and could-be murderer.

But _Moran_. This was the man Sherlock had warned him about. This was the danger he’d spoken of.

“I’ll ask you one more time,” Moran said through clenched teeth. He pointed a handgun at Mycroft’s nose. “Where is Sherlock Holmes?”

“Trouble hearing, mate?” John yelled across the room. He had his wrists untied but he kept them where they were, behind him. Waiting. “The man said Sherlock Holmes is dead.”

Moran took the bait, stalking over to John with a snarl. He really wasn’t impressive at all. John felt utterly calm. He wondered, vaguely, if this was always how he reacted to danger.

“Do you think you’re funny, Doctor Watson?” Moran asked. He tilted his head and gave John an ugly smile.

“I’ve been told I have a healthy sense of humor,” John said. He couldn’t remember anyone saying any such thing, but it sounded good.

“You’ve been hiding from me, Watson,” Moran said. “Holed up in that big house. I had to be so patient before I could grab you. Tell me, is your … partner there, too?”

The way he said _partner_ , like it was a shameful thing, made John bristle.

“Hit a nerve, did I?” Moran laughed and skulked closer. John readied himself for a fight.

Out of the corner of his eye, John noticed a familiar form crouching behind Mycroft. Untying him. Sherlock! John nearly gave it all away by yelling his name, but he kept calm, kept looking up into Moran’s face, slowly moving his legs into position to kick out at the man. He would have to move quick to take the gun out of play.

John knew how he looked, helplessly staring up at Moran, bound to a thick pipe, with a gun pointed at his forehead. Sherlock would think he had to do something immediately. So when Sherlock began to creep forward, brandishing a lead pipe, John wasn’t surprised, but he _was_ worried.

So John did what any military-trained amnesiac with a doctor’s knowledge would do: he stood up in one fluid movement and grabbed for Moran’s wrist, intent on breaking it.

Unfortunately, Moran heard Sherlock coming up behind him, turned, and fired.

John tackled Moran immediately and the shot went wild. Mycroft shouted, “Sherlock!” and John felt unbridled panic. He looked up and saw Sherlock had fallen to to the floor, and then something _clicked_ in his head and John knew completely and absolutely that if Sherlock died, he would be utterly lost. He-

“John!” Mycroft snapped.

Beneath him, Moran squirmed and tried to get away. John rolled him over on his back so that he could punch him in the nose. Moran cried out in pain and then John hit him again. This time, Moran lost consciousness.

And then John was moving again; he didn’t remember the space between one point and another. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was Sherlock, who was looking overly pale.

John touched Sherlock’s chest, moving his coat and shirt out of the way, searching for the gunshot wound. “Where-”

“My arm,” Sherlock said roughly. “Just my arm.”

John nodded and started tearing the arm of Sherlock’s coat and shirt to get to skin. Sherlock made an annoyed sound and John glared at him. “You’ve just been shot, the least you should be worried about is your _clothes_.”

“I rather liked this coat,” Sherlock said mournfully.

“The bullet went all the way through. And I just wanted the excuse to tear your clothes off,” John said with a smirk. He could hear the echo of the words in his mind as if he’d said something similar in the past. 

Sherlock blinked as John used his scarf as a makeshift bandage. “People might talk.”

“Sod them all,” John said, leaning down to kiss Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock’s quick inhale almost took John’s own breath, and he tilted his head so that their mouths fit together like a piece of the puzzle finally clicking into place.

Behind them, Mycroft cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, if we can pull ourselves away from one another, we have a problem.”

John looked up, his head muzzy from the kiss. “What is it?” Then he looked across the large room and swore. Moran was gone. “How-”

“My fault,” Mycroft said in a tight voice. “I let my concern for Sherlock distract me from securing him.”

“He was out cold,” John said, but then he realized Moran could have been faking.

“Quite,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock groaned. “It will take weeks to find him again. Help me up, John.”

Sherlock was solid; he was a lot heavier than he looked. 

John and Mycroft agreed to go back to the house to rest and regroup. Sherlock refused to go to A&E, and he complained about their final destination, muttering something about an ‘overbearing archenemy’, but John distracted him with more kissing.

Sherlock kissed John with small hums of enjoyment. He seemed strangely shy about initiating anything, but once John leaned in and started it, Sherlock kissed back as though it were their first and last.

“I want to tell you everything,” Sherlock said when he was finally lying (shirtless) in John’s bed and John was winding a _real_ bandage around his bicep.

“This is only temporary, you have to promise to see a real doctor about this tomorrow,” John said.

Sherlock blinked. “You’re a real doctor, John.”

“I don’t remember it,” John said. “A doctor’s knowledge includes his experience, and I basically have none.”

“Interesting,” Sherlock said, narrowing his eyes. “I’d like to conduct some tests to verify the extent of your knowledge.”

“I- Alright,” John said. He finished with the bandage and leaned down to kiss Sherlock again.

“I really do have to tell you everything,” Sherlock murmured against his lips. ”There’s so much you don’t know.”

“And I want to hear it all. But it’s getting late and you’ve been _shot_ ,” John said. He kicked his shoes off and curled up beside Sherlock, sharing the pillow.

“You aren’t as curious as I had anticipated,” Sherlock said with a frown. “You always manage to surprise me.”

“I know I drugged myself to get rid of some horrible memories,” John said. Sherlock’s eyes were more blue than silver from this close.

“And?”

John sighed. “And maybe I’m afraid of what those memories are.”

“It’s my fault,” Sherlock said softly.

John kissed him quickly to shut him up. “Don’t. Don’t tell me yet. I just want some time with you before I know.”

“Why?” Sherlock asked.

“Because I know I almost lost you today and that’s all I can focus on right now,” John said truthfully.

“You don’t remember me. How can you feel so strongly?” Sherlock asked.

 _Because you smell like home._ “I don’t know,” John whispered.

“I’ve always hated that answer. It’s right up there with ‘just because’,” Sherlock said.

“When’s the last time you slept?” John asked, changing the subject.

Sherlock frowned. “I sleep. Just not for very long.”

John had a sneaking suspicion. “And the last time you ate?”

Sherlock waved his hand. “I can barely eat when I’m on a case.”

“How long have you been on this case?” John asked slowly.

“Two months.”

“You can’t just not eat for two months!” John said. “Surprised you aren’t positively skeletal.”

“I did eat _some_ ,” Sherlock said. He sounded so cross that John had to laugh.

“Well, I’ll be sure to start feeding you up tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Sherlock said. He was frowning.

“What’s wrong?” John asked.

“Nothing,” Sherlock said.

“I’m not convinced.”

Sherlock sighed. “I don’t want to tell you about what happened two months ago and I don’t want you to remember it.”

“That’s surprisingly candid,” John said quietly. Sherlock blamed himself for what John had done, that much was clear.

Sherlock looked as though he would say more, but John cut him off with a kiss.

“Go to sleep,” John whispered, taking Sherlock’s hand.

Instead of arguing, Sherlock yawned and nodded. He closed his eyes and his breath evened out in a matter of moments.

John listened to his breathing for a while before falling asleep himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank you readers for all the kudos and comments. They have made my days brighter. Hope you enjoyed this chapter; more coming in two days!


	4. Chapter 4

“Your kisses are like a drug,” Sherlock whispered. At one time during the night, John had stripped down to his boxers, so now they touched skin on skin. Morning was streaming in through the sheer curtains, painting their bodies with strips of light. It was as surreal as a dream until Sherlock bit John’s lower lip. The sharp pain/pleasure grounded John in the here and now.

“Mmm. Less side effects, this,” John murmured, licking and nipping his way down Sherlock’s lightly stubbled jaw.

Sherlock gasped as John’s lips reached his pale throat. “ _God_.”

For once, John didn’t hate his amnesia. This was like discovering Sherlock’s body for the first time: finding his sensitive spots and seeing how far he could exploit them. He scraped his teeth across one patch of skin on Sherlock’s neck and Sherlock arched up against him, gripping his biceps, making a loud needy sound.

John couldn’t wait to make him come.

He paused and thought how he could make that happen, and his first idea was to use his mouth. But when he tried to access that information the way he’d remembered knowledge in the past, but there was a big blank in his mind. No past experience rose up to give him pointers beyond _mind the teeth_ , and he didn’t want to give Sherlock a sloppy, inexperienced blowjob their first time together.

His hand seemed the better option. 

“John?” Sherlock asked and he realized he’d stopped kissing completely and he’d just been lying on top of Sherlock.

John lifted up to look at him. Sherlock’s soft curls were spread out on the pillow like a dark halo. His eyes were very blue this morning. He looked utterly open and John felt himself smiling. He was happier than he could ever remember being.

Slowly, John moved onto his side so he could slide his hand down Sherlock’s chest. He went slowly, gently, watching Sherlock’s face. When his fingers reached the button of his trousers, Sherlock’s eyes widened. “ _John_.”

John frowned slightly. “D’you want me to stop?”

Sherlock’s face smoothed into something John couldn’t read. He shook his head. “No.”

“All right, then,” John said, and fumbled Sherlock’s trousers open. “I want to see you come.”

Sherlock gasped then, before John even touched him. Sherlock’s cock was hot and hard, wet at the tip. John swiped his thumb over the precome at the head and then brought it to his mouth to taste. Sherlock’s eyes never left his face. Then John licked his palm thoroughly so that when he started pulling Sherlock’s cock the slide was (almost) smooth. 

Sherlock was utterly still, his entire body tense with the effort of remaining motionless. John leaned in close and whispered, “Fuck my hand,” and Sherlock’s hips thrust up. John said, “Kiss me,” and Sherlock’s mouth opened to him, wet and eager. Sherlock’s immediate obedience was a heady thing and it almost overwhelmed John to have it. 

And then John said, “I love you,” and Sherlock lost control entirely, coming with a choked sound. 

When Sherlock came back to himself (that is, when he wasn’t staring at the ceiling like he saw fireworks there) he pulled John close and kissed him. “That was...”

“Brilliant?” John said with a smile. “Yeah.”

Sherlock frowned then and made a vague gesture. “But you didn’t-”

John shrugged, ignoring the way his cock throbbed in his underwear. He wiped his sticky hand on the sheets. Sherlock was looking at him, though, staring hard.

“Don’t you want … something?” _Me_ was unspoken. Sherlock sounded _vulnerable_ , which gave John a twinge of dismay.

“Of course I want you. Sherlock, Christ, I’ll always want you,” John reassured him. 

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as if he were thinking hard. “I want to try something,” he said, and rolled over on top of John. He was warm and a bit bony and John was concerned for Sherlock’s arm, but before he could suggest propping it up on a pillow, Sherlock was sliding down his body, lips tickling his chest and belly. John blinked slowly, his mind registering _blowjob_ a split second before Sherlock was taking his cock out of his pants and licking the length of him.

The noise John made then was ridiculously embarrassing, and he couldn’t help but repeat it again and again, more loudly as Sherlock’s mouth closed around him and John’s cock was engulfed by wet heat.

“ _Sherlock_ , you amazingly talented bastard-” John babbled, “-bloody _genius_ , you’ve got more talent than I ever _dreamed_...”

Sherlock, for his part, was smiling, humming around the cock in his mouth, the vibration nearly doing John in completely. 

“ _Smug_ ,” John muttered, “I can see it in your eyes, you think you’re so- _Oh_!” Sherlock was pressing his tongue against the frenulum now and the action brought shocks of pleasure to his body and bursts of light behind his eyelids.

He was close. There was a lot he didn’t remember, but he did know that it just wasn’t done to come down a bloke’s throat without warning. He made a helpless sound and formed a word that might have been, “Gonna-” and then Sherlock, _lovelovelove him_ , was doing everything he could to encourage John to come as soon as possible.

John arched off the bed and cried out as his orgasm hit. He felt as if he were flying through a sky full of stars at warp speed, watching as pinpoints of light exploded before his eyes.

Eventually, he came back to earth. Sherlock had managed to pull John against his side and was stroking his hair while John attempted to get his breath back.

“Brilliant,” John sighed. Happy. Had he ever felt so happy? “Is it always this good with us?”

Sherlock’s hand paused in John’s hair for a moment, but then it went back to stroking gently. “We’ve always worked well together.”

John laughed and said, “You were amazing.”

“I wasn’t sure. I’m a bit rusty,” Sherlock said.

“Two months isn’t that long, is it?” John asked.

“It felt like years.”

“You kept yourself busy, though, right? Hunting down criminals and the like,” John said. He sighed. “I think it’s probably time you told me about it.”

Sherlock’s hold on him tightened and John found himself in a grip that almost hurt. “Shall I go from the beginning?”

“Start with how we met,” John said.

Sherlock tensed suddenly, pushing John to sit up. “I smell smoke.”

Then the alarms went off, and John jumped up and was pulling on his clothes. “The house is on fire.”

Sherlock nodded sharply. 

“It’s a trap,” John blurted out. “He’ll flush us out of the house and pick us off one by one.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Sherlock murmured. He opened up the bedside table and started rummaging through it. “Where’s your damned service revolver?”

“I hadn’t realized I’d need a gun,” John said, his voice sharp with fear and adrenaline. 

There was a sharp rap on the door and Mycroft entered, a wet towel over his face. Smoke from the hallway wafted into the room. 

“Tell me you have a gun,” Sherlock demanded.

“John,” Mycroft said, and handed over a SIG. John immediately checked the magazine, counted the rounds at a glance, then slid the clip back into place.

“All right,” John said, his mind working overtime. “Do we know where the fire started?”

Mycroft shook his head. “The smoke is thickest to the west end of the building.”

“Your staff?” Sherlock asked. 

“No one is answering on the intercom and something is jamming the mobile signal,” Mycroft said smoothly, though his eyes gave away his dismay.

“He’s expecting us to leave through the east exit,” John said. He thought, bringing up a mental picture of the lay of the grounds. “He’ll be set up behind the boxwood if he’s smart. We need to get the jump on him; go out through a south window and move around.”

“And if he’s expecting that?” Mycroft asked.

John shook his head. “We’ll climb over the south wall and stay under cover. I won’t come out until I’m almost on him.”

“You can’t mean to take him on alone,” Sherlock said.

“You’re not at your peak at the moment. Gunshot wound, remember?” John said.

“When we don’t emerge from the east exit, Moran will become suspicious,” Mycroft said.

“He won’t be expecting us to climb over the wall, though,” John said sensibly, tucking the gun into the small of his back. “Even if he did, he won’t be able to move without making himself vulnerable.”

The smoke from the hall became thicker and Mycroft coughed.

“Okay, we’re not sticking around here to get smoke inhalation,” John said. He moved quickly into the bathroom and dampened two towels, one for Sherlock and one for himself.

They made their way through the smoke, toward the back of the house, to the breakfast room with its southern exposure and large windows. John wrapped his towel around his arm and broke the antique panes while Mycroft winced at the loss. 

“Out we go,” John murmured. Once they were on the ground, John took the SIG out and kept his eyes open for danger. They were in the clear, though -- no one fired on them and they made it back to the wall. 

Despite his injured arm, Sherlock climbed over with the grace of a cat. Mycroft was next, and while he wasn’t as limber or as quick as Sherlock, he didn’t need John’s help. John’s boots scraped at the bricks in a few futile tries before he heaved himself over the wall, and when he reached the other side, the other two gave him superior looks. John could almost hear them smugly ask, ‘What took you so long?’

John took the lead and they crept toward Moran’s likely location. When they were far enough and the wall had curved in close to the bushes, John climbed back over the wall, his gun at the ready.

His boots made no noise on the lush grass as he moved toward the shrubs. Moran was camouflaged well; John didn’t see him until he was only a few feet away. A small change of direction was all it took for John to be directly behind Moran, and then it was only a matter of steps before John’s gun pressed against the back of Moran’s head.

Moran jerked, then went for the handgun resting on the ground beside him.

“I wouldn’t,” John said. “Unless you want your gray matter dripping from the boxwood.”

The man stilled and then slowly raised his hands in surrender.

“You’re not getting away this time,” John said.

“You’ll have to kill me to be rid of me,” Moran snarled.

John ground the barrel of the gun against Moran’s skull. “Don’t tempt me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you so much for everything. Readers like you make me happy. (so do kudos and comments)


	5. Chapter 5

Strangely enough, it was Sherlock that the authorities took away for questioning. Mycroft dropped John off at the Baker Street flat, then said he had to go pull strings to make sure Sherlock was home in time for Christmas. John hoped he was joking about the timeframe. 

It was confusing and John had a headache. He went and had a shower to get rid of the stench of smoke and sweat, then found some comfortable clothes in his closet. 

He needed a proper drink. He settled for making tea.

He sat down in his chair and looked across at the other one. Sherlock’s, he was sure now. He had so many questions.

His eyes wandered over to the laptop. With a sudden flash of inspiration, he opened it and typed in a possible password. _Wrong_.

He tried again and again. Nothing.

Finally, in a fit of frustration, he typed in _kandahar_ and just like that, the laptop was unlocked.

He didn’t know what he was looking for, but he figured his bookmarks would give him something. He was astonished to find a bookmark titled _The blog of Dr. John H. Watson_. He clicked.

And then he began to read.

Days and months scrolled on the screen and John did the impossible. He _remembered_.

Not everything. Not all at once. But now he remembered meeting Sherlock and thinking he was a brilliant madman and that his life would never be the same again.

He remembered friends and Ella and his sister and how Mycroft had practically kidnapped him, acting the part of a shady criminal. Arch-enemy indeed.

He shivered when his thoughts turned to Moriarty. He googled _Sherlock Holmes_ and found news stories that proclaimed the man a fraud and a swindler. But interspersed among the sensational and provocative were well-researched articles that proved Sherlock had been telling the truth.

Had been. Past tense. Because as he soon found out, Sherlock Holmes had committed suicide two months earlier by jumping off a roof.

Even knowing that it wasn’t true, that Sherlock was alive, had been alive that morning as he writhed in pleasure under John’s hands, it still made John feel sick.

He closed his eyes and tried not to think about it, but flashes of a billowing coat and blood and a still pulse kept invading his mind. He’d been there. He’d seen Sherlock die. 

“Oh, Jesus,” John whispered, stumbling up and over to the window. He needed air. No, he needed to not be remembering this. “No.”

It all fell into place then.

* * *

_John had never been a gifted chemist. That had been Sherlock’s thing, not his. But now John worked diligently and carefully, following scribbled instructions and paying attention to every blot on the papers._

_If ever someone had discovered the secret formulation of_ nepenthes pharmakon _, it would be Sherlock. John wondered when and how Sherlock had worked it out. Wishing for one of Sherlock’s explanations made his heart hurt, though._

_He blinked hard before letting another drop of belladonna fall into the beaker. The formula promised an end to the grief. John didn’t know how it worked, but he recognized the ingredients and knew their properties._

_If the nepenthe didn’t live up to its hype, he would at least be very, very calm._

_He’d found the ‘recipe’ three weeks before while going through Sherlock’s things. He had considered giving the books away to a library, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. He had leafed through Homer’s Odyssey just to feel the pages under his fingers when two thin pages fell out. Seeing Sherlock’s handwriting then made John shiver. He’d been drawn to the formula straight away, even before he knew what it was, just because it was something that had belonged to Sherlock._

_It had been almost two months since Sherlock died, and John was lost. He had lost his place in the world._

_He read the notes in his head, in Sherlock’s voice. There was something in Greek that John couldn’t read, but under that,_ that which chases away sorrow _and a line from Poe he recognized,_ Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore! __

_John wanted to forget his lost Sherlock, just for a little while. The memories were so painful, even the good ones. Especially the good ones._

_The notes were incomplete, though. There were no personal observations. Sherlock never used the nepenthe, either on himself or someone else. John knew this should mean something to him, but the whispered promises of an escape from pain lured him in._

_He poured the end result into his tea and sat in his armchair. It was bitter, so bitter going down. It burned his throat and his eyes watered._

_But it wasn’t long before a warmth stole through his body. He felt weightless. He set his cup down and looked across at Sherlock’s chair. The air shimmered for a moment and there was a buzzing in his ears._

_Then there was nothing. Nothing at all._

* * *

John woke with a start. At first he thought he was at Mycroft’s, but then memories flooded back. Baker Street. Home.

At some point he had made it to bed and now the sheets were wrapped around his legs, making it virtually impossible to move. After wrestling with them for a moment, he got himself free and went downstairs.

Sherlock was waiting for him, lying on the sofa. “You’ve remembered,” he said without preamble.

“Not everything,” John said. He scrubbed a hand over his face, thinking the action might bring some clarity. 

“But enough,” Sherlock said. He looked very tired.

“I’ll make tea,” John said.

Sherlock snorted but John didn’t bother to ask what was funny. While the kettle boiled, John kept sneaking glances at Sherlock, just to remind himself that he was still alive. He took in the way Sherlock’s chest rose and fell and the impatient huffs he kept making. It was almost enough.

He brought the tea in on a tray and made Sherlock’s to his liking before handing it over. It was nice to remember the little things.

Sherlock took the cup with a nod and frowned. Thinking, John knew. Puzzling something out. Also, he was doing his best to be patient with John, though he didn’t hide his irritability well.

John took a sip and then put his cup down. “What you did was cruel.”

“You’ll have to be more specific, John,” Sherlock said, not sounding at all contrite.

“I’m talking about making me witness your suicide,” John clipped out.

“It was necessary,” Sherlock said in an even tone.

“Because Moriarty’s men were after you and it was easier to hunt them down if you were thought dead,” John surmised. “I understand that. But why fool _me_?”

“Don’t be _stupid_ ,” Sherlock said. “Moriarty promised to burn the heart out of me, and he very nearly did.”

“What does that mean?” John asked sharply.

“It means he had men on my closest friends, and if I hadn’t ‘died’, they would have killed you all,” Sherlock said.

“Who?”

“You, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade,” Sherlock said.

“It still doesn’t answer the question, Sherlock. Why trick me? Why not let me in on the plan?”

“Because it fit into my plan perfectly. No one would suspect I was alive if my best friend was undeniably sunk in mourning.”

John sucked in air. It hurt. “You used my grief.”

Sherlock looked defiant. “Yes, absolutely I did. I used it to keep you alive, John.”

“You bastard,” John said quietly. He thought about the overdose, and what would have happened if Mrs. Hudson hadn’t found him when she did. “It nearly killed me.”

Something flickered on Sherlock’s face. “I failed to predict you’d go to such extremes.”

And then John understood. Completely. 

“You didn’t know I loved you,” John said with surety. He got up and moved closer. Sherlock sat up straighter and seemed to be holding his breath.

Then Sherlock said, “No.”

John reached out and cupped Sherlock’s face. 

“You have to know. You and I never- We were never-” Sherlock said, struggling with his words.

John smiled a little. “Together? I remember.” Then he leaned down and kissed him.

“I don’t understand,” Sherlock muttered against his lips.

John pulled back a few inches. “If you don’t want this, we can just be … friends, again.”

“You have the most preposterous ideas at times, John.”

“What about bed?” John asked cheerfully. “Is that another ‘preposterous’ idea?”

Sherlock couldn’t seem to help the grin that spread across his face. “There are times when I think you’re just as brilliant as I am.” And then they were both moving to the bedroom in a rush.

“I’m still angry with you,” John said when Sherlock pressed him down on the bed.

“I expected as much,” Sherlock said, and then he kissed him. It was deep and possessive. John lost his breath. The kiss was shockingly intense, overwhelming. He surged forward and Sherlock scrabbled at his waistband, his fingers pressed down between their two bodies.

Sherlock reached back onto the bedside table. His hands grasping for the bottle of lube that stood there. “I’ve never actually done this,” John admitted.

Sherlock stilled. “Never?”

“I was straight until I met you,” John said, only half joking.

“People don’t just-” Sherlock started to say, but John cut him off with a kiss.

“This person does,” he whispered.

Sherlock made a small moan of desire and then he said resolutely, “I want you to fuck me.”

John didn’t know if it was the mental picture that stirred up or the way Sherlock said ‘fuck’, but every nerve suddenly seemed to sing. “Alright then,” he said. 

Sherlock peeled his clothes off and looked down at John. Then he straddled his hips and said, “Like this. I want to ride you.”

If he kept talking like that, John was going to lose it without being touched.

Sherlock took the lube and slicked his fingers, and then he started to finger himself. 

“ _Jesus Christ_ ,” John said.

“You like to watch,” Sherlock said smugly. He was riding his fingers and John imagined them pushing deeper, making the way for John’s cock.

“Oh, God,” John whispered. Sherlock rolled a condom onto him. John blinked, wondering how Sherlock was keeping his head.

“Watch this,” Sherlock said softly, then his eyes narrowed in concentration and he was sinking down, down, and John couldn’t _breathe_.

He didn’t know what he was supposed to be watching. Was it where he disappeared into Sherlock’s body? Was it Sherlock’s own bobbing, beautiful cock? Or was it the way Sherlock tilted his head back, moaning, exposing his throat?

John just touched Sherlock’s thighs for a few moments, overwhelmed at all the new sensation he was feeling. Sherlock was tight and as hot as a fever, and John found himself very close, very fast. He thrust up at an awkward angle, but Sherlock just shifted and then they were moving together in rapid, fluid motions. 

Wrapping a hand around Sherlock’s waiting cock, John up at Sherlock and said, “I want to feel you come around me.”

“Keep touching me,” Sherlock demanded, taking John deeper. John was buried in him, so close to him, inside him, but he was captivated suddenly by the sounds Sherlock was making. He panted. He made little groaning noises under his breath. He had lost his words, and that made John feel immensely powerful somehow.

John moved his hand on Sherlock’s cock and squeezed the head on every upstroke. Sherlock seemed to love it, and he moved between John’s cock and his hand like he wasn’t sure which one to favor.

He was beautiful, all flushed skin with a fine sheen of sweat, blown pupils, his damp hair curling around his face. John loved him and his strong, pale thighs, loved the way he moaned in pleasure and clenched around his cock.

“You’re babbling, John,” Sherlock panted, but then he was coming all over John’s hand, his arse tightening with the shocks of his orgasm. 

“ _Fucking_ hell,” John gasped, and he could do nothing but feel as his own climax was ripped from his body.

They collapsed in a sweaty heap, both of them breathless and clutching at each other like the moment might dissolve.

John vaguely thought he might want to talk, or have a cuddle, but Sherlock had other ideas. After being _on_ for two months, working the most important case of his life, he was exhausted; he fell fast asleep. He didn’t stir when John resituated their bodies into more comfortable positions or when John whispered the things he’d been holding back since they first met. 

This thing between them would bring him grief again, he knew. He twined his fingers into Sherlock's hair and felt the happiness blossoming inside him. 

Eh, he'd risk it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am absolutely floored by the reception this has gotten. Thank you so, so much for every comment, kudo, and rec. I have to say I couldn't have done it without my beta and britpicker lim, who kicked this fic until it was in proper shape.
> 
> Thank you again for reading.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Cover Art] for "The End of Sorrow" by Green](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2521955) by [Hamstermoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hamstermoon/pseuds/Hamstermoon)




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